


On S’Aimera

by sherwoodfox



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (kiss scene), Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Divorce, F/M, First Kiss, Heartbreak, Homophobic Language, Inescapable Heterosexuality, Internal Monologue, M/M, Major Illness, Marriage, Mind Palace, Oblivious Berlin, Possessive Behavior, Retrospective, Romanticism, Sexist Language, Soulmates, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: “I realized I had known this all along.Oh, how Martín looked at me- there was always such devotion in his bright green eyes. Such tenderness when he helped dress me, such affection when I smiled at him, such delight when I praised anything he did. There was always a hint of hope, blistering white on the canvas, when he propositioned me- blowing kisses or offering blowjobs. How distant he always was from my wives. What a terrible state he had been in, fearing my death! It was true, wasn’t it? It had to be true, and I, and I…I had fooled myself for years, thinking that Martín simply loved me, when he wasinlove with me instead.”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Tatiana
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	On S’Aimera

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty direct style prequel to my other story ‘Bambola!’- I’m planning to turn this into a trilogy (“prize” for whoever guesses the third character in the comments) so I’ll put them in a series when the last one is done. Enjoy!

_Un jour t'achètes,_

_Un jour tu aimes._

_Un jour tu jettes,_

_Mais un jour tu payes._

_Un jour tu verras-_

_On s'aimera!_

_Mais avant on crèvera tous,_

_comme_

_des_

_rats._

What a pity.

Walking out into the evening air, leaving the monastery behind, this was what I thought of what had just transpired between its walls.

It was a pity, wasn’t it?

Martín Berrote was a stunning creature, after all.

I thought of him, standing there in the fading light, and this was a testament to how important he had been, for if it had been anyone else I wouldn’t have still had him on my mind.

Ah, Martín. I had met him in a jewelry job, years ago now, in the naive time I had spent with my third wife. 

(That was amusing- I only thought of her if I was thinking of him! She didn’t matter at all, and hadn’t mattered in so long.)

The heist had been simple, but elegant, just like what we were stealing. Diamonds and pearls, nothing but the classics. Martín had been new, and I hadn’t known him, but still for some reason it had felt like I did. Wasn’t that magical? Talking to him, right from that first moment, it had been like talking to an old friend. Marvellous! Even my younger brother, dear Sergio, didn’t understand me so easily...didn’t have that sense of immediate, impeccable connection. Though we had the same father and nearly our entire lives to get to know each other, and I was very fond of him indeed, talking to him was like talking to anyone on the street (only he was much smarter than anyone on the street). It wasn’t like _this._ I saw what I was going to say reflected in Martín’s eyes before I even said it, saw in his clever little smile an understanding of what I did say that went so much deeper than I had assumed was even possible. I had become so accustomed to the slack-jawed vacancy of _ordinary_ people, the flat colours in their empty eyes, their regular flavourless fear and shock and confusion. I had begun to assume that I was the only person in the whole world who was like me.

And it had been amazing to be proven wrong!

What wonderful colours he had, this Martín Berrote! How bright they were! How well he could hide them when he fancied it, with layers upon layers of diversion and misdirection, signs that pointed in opposite directions. He was so clever, a little red fox with bright eyes and a fiery tail. Whatever god or fortune had painted him was a master of the craft, for he was every part as complex and thrilling and lovely as anything from the Renaissance.

Even the _physicality_ of it was unbelievable- through pure body chemistry, he always seemed to know where I would turn so he could cover the other way, or where he should stand to suit my plans. Fighting alongside him was the easiest thing in the world, for neither of us needed to say anything to work perfectly in tandem, like our minds were linked beneath the surface by a thread with more substance than words. On that first night, only hours after I had laid eyes on him for the first time, we found ourselves back-to-back, guns raised, and it was the most fun I had experienced with my art in a long time.

I knew that he was special, that I had to have him. He understood me perfectly, and so too did I understand him, and so it only made sense that the moment we met we became inseparable.

He fit into my life so easily, my little Argentinian fox. No one questioned it for even a moment, for we were like mirror images, and though we had differences those differences only complemented each other. I became invigorated, feeling like I had finally found something important I hadn’t even known I was missing.

The plans we made together worked so much better than any of the ones I had designed on my own. His suggestions always opened my eyes to possibilities I hadn’t considered. He was greedy, and that was delightful to me, and between his ambitions and my aesthetics we crafted the very best of thefts. He was swiftly an irreplaceable addition to my works, a set of colours and textures that needed to be part of the final design- unlike ordinary people, he looked like he _belonged_ standing there in my home, and even more so in the midst of chaos, when the night was deep and bullets were flying and diamonds shone, caught in his teeth. Beautiful.

Ours was a true partnership, which only naturally outlasted what I had with my third wife. That had been a pale, watercolour kind of relation, and in the end I broke her heart, because what else was I to do? I didn’t love her anymore. I realized that true love, forever love, surely didn’t exist (the same realization I came to after every divorce), and I completed that painting with a signature in blue and left it away in a corner of my mind I never bothered to go to, and closed the door.

(My Martín acted a little strange for a while, after that breakup- something in his eyes became a little sharper, maybe, a little _hungrier,_ and I enjoyed it while it lasted because it made him even wilder than he usually was.)

Our partnership prevailed even as I found love again, in the eyes and body of another woman whose words I enjoyed, whose shape I fancied looked right next to mine. She wasn’t like Martín, of course, because no woman ever could be, even if I was in love and it was true love and everything was bright and rosy. I married my fourth wife three months into our courtship, and Martín was naturally my best man (spare little Sergio the trouble this time!), and I thought the picture we had made was art of the ultimate kind- for didn’t I have the most perfect woman here, on the most perfect day, and just as well the most perfect companion? Perfect, because not only was he happy for me, he was also a little _jealous._

I discovered fairly early on that Martín was a homosexual, but I paid little mind to this. As a man, I couldn’t understand his desires- but then, I supposed he couldn’t understand mine! What a novel thought. But to imagine finding something amorous in a body that was not female, well, that was impossible for me.

Still, I found it very charming, how he flirted with me. Of course it was only natural he should find me attractive- I was an attractive man, and he was attracted to men. Nevermind the connection we shared with each other. I enjoyed the games we played- his hot, lingering gazes, offers of sexual favours, the way he turned his head and pouted- and I knew he did as well. Just as surely as I knew he would make his obscene advances, he knew I would only ignore them. And still, we moved around each other as fluidly as water, each predicting the other’s every move, and temper, and thought. Mirror images in slightly different colours. I had my wife, my natural _amor,_ and though I paid little attention to this, I knew he had...associates...of his own, fleeting trysts with men whose faces did not matter, men who he let all of his wilder passions out upon.

(At the time, I did not imagine Martín in love, not the way I was in love, never like that. Two men couldn’t share the kind of love that came between a man and a woman, I thought, it must be different- and Martín never kept anyone around longer than a night, so he did nothing to disprove this to me.)

A year went by, two, three, and I thought my fourth wife was the one I had spent all my previous relations waiting for, the one for whom I had found myself to be broken hearted and disillusioned for so long. We traveled the world, and Martín came too as my dear friend, and everything was in its proper place- my wife waiting for me with open arms and soft curves when I returned home, and my other half working beside me in the night, with his impeccable style and clever smile and terrible temper.

This state of love was heaven, and by the fourth year, it was lost.

The marriage came burning down. That woman was a fool, how hadn’t I seen it? She was nothing like me, and didn’t deserve any place at my side, and I couldn’t believe I had been tricked again by the idea of love when ultimately, women were all the same.

Divorce. My rationale- no longer so blinded by sexual desire, by love- came back, and I saw the world more clearly. I decided that the marriage had been worth just the same as all the rest, which was very little- a messy work, that one had been, I preferred not to picture it in my portfolio. I put it away in a disgraced corner of my mind, and closed the door.

But Martín was with me, and I found his company infinitely more agreeable. He made quite the attempt to seduce me in this fractured, angry period, and I enjoyed that. We moved to Italy, to be away from it all, and bought a monastery to spend our days in- a beautiful place of solitude and fraternity.

And besides, things were so much easier with just Martín. The rooms we occupied did not feel empty or affectionless, for now we had such a great affection for each other. I found myself amazed- other than family, I had never kept anyone close to me for as long as this, and it was just more proof that he was very special. We moved so naturally together, like we had been designed to fit as one. I loved him, and he surely loved me, and we made the best of companions. A perfect pair. 

(Soulmates- well, at least to 99%. There was no sexuality between us, beyond Martín’s playful flirtations, but that was only a game.)

In this honeymoon mindset we planned together, and we came up with the greatest plan of all: a plan to steal the gold buried beneath the Bank of Spain. Something that had never been done before. The impossible! The unbelievable! We played with this plan in our spare time, toyed and tinkered with it for our pleasure, because of course it was ridiculous and there was no reason to pursue the thing, even if it was beautiful beyond all comparison.

And to speak of beautiful beyond all comparison-

I met _Tatiana._

What a woman she was, what a woman indeed! A woman who countered all my expectations, who disarmed all my logic and reality with her well-framed words and bright eyes. A very beautiful, sexy woman. A woman totally unlike all the rest of her kind, I saw this at once. I fell into love again, and easily.

(Did I ever really learn my lesson?)

Martín was wary of her at first, my beloved Tatiana, he didn’t like her sniffing about his territory- I saw how his hackles raised when she joined us at first, how he bared his sharp teeth, but I soon soothed him. Of course I understood his concerns- he cared for me deeply, as I cared for him, it made perfect sense for him to be hesitant after all my past failures, but he couldn’t see Tatiana the way I could. His brain had been programmed differently, and that was no fault of his.

Things became perfect again, more perfect than any previous perfection, and the very sunlight was rosy. I planned not a heist, but my proposal, carefully laying out the details of the ring and the location and the music…

...and then, my hands began to shake.

I thought little of it, at first. I only thought it was strange. I had always had very steady hands. Surely, it wasn’t anything that mattered.

Many strange things began to happen. I would, when sitting in a chair and intending to stand, suddenly find I couldn’t, at least not for a moment or so. What a bizarre sensation! Like my limbs simply did not want to agree to my commands. But it always passed, this feeling (or rather, lack thereof) and I put it out of my mind. I had more beautiful things to plan for.

I would have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Not because I felt the need to sleep, no, my eyelids would be as spry and weightless as they usually were, but because for whatever reason I became weak and numb, limp like a dead fish, while at the same time wholly conscious and aware.

My hands shook more. These other moments of weakness were rarities, few and far between, but my hands began to shake almost constantly. I would feel a strange pain deep inside, like my muscles were inflamed where they rubbed against my bones.

Martín saw this, but I wouldn’t let him speak of it, though surely he felt the changes in me just as surely as I did. Why did his hands not shake? We were connected so closely in every way, and yet I was the only one developing this weakness.

(I began to have my suspicions, then. If Martín did not have this problem, then that meant it came from some other channel- another connection that tied me to someone else. A connection of the womb’s water, maybe.)

Tatiana saw these changes as well, but of course she was devoted to me anyway. She wasn’t like other women, who would run at the first sign of weakness in their man, only desiring a virile animal mating partner. No, what we had was true love. When my hands shook too much in the mornings, she would shave my face for me, lift my cup to my lips. I tried not to show that I was concerned by these things for her sake, for really I was only concerned because I had not yet uncovered an explanation, and being worried was tiresome and ungentlemanly.

The turning point happened one night in winter. Tatiana had flown home to see her sister, and she had wanted to go without me, and I hadn’t minded- I was a man, I didn’t need to meddle in the affairs of women. But the night in the monastery was cold without her, and so I ran myself a bath, and settled into it with a record from Beethoven playing and a small glass of scotch. 

I was enjoying myself like this, and then my body...fell away.

Every muscle relaxed, I had no control, becoming the general of a rebelling army caught in my own head. I dropped my glass, heard it shatter on the tiles, and slipped under the water.

The fear I felt in that moment was exquisite. Never had I been quite so intensely afraid- it was because I had lost myself, lost my whole body, and even though my instincts as a human would surely have been to inhale my lungs wouldn’t even do that. I could twitch here and there, like a disgusting insect skewered through the spine, but I couldn’t pull myself up. I was under less than half a meter of water, in such an innocent state of luxury, and I was going to drown. This was not an end I fancied at all.

Martín was the one who pulled me out. How he had known, I do not know, and never asked- perhaps he had somehow felt the waters closing over his own head. He pulled me out, and in such a panic he touched me everywhere- shaking my shoulders, checking my pulse, cradling my face in his hands. He called my name so desperately, and I saw such fear in his eyes, a fear that surely matched my own. It was so delightful to watch him in such a state that, when I regained control over myself, I could only smile at him.

(And I swear, when he saw that he almost kissed me! So overwhelming was his relief he did not leave my side once that night, wrapping me in towels and blankets and watching me so closely- finally, he shook just as I did, his entire body trembled and we were one once more.)

He took me to the hospital the morning following, where I learned what I had begun to suspect- it was myopathy. The same slow, withering, inescapable disease that had destroyed my mother, and _then_ killed her.

But, good news! There was a treatment, if not a cure. I could live a few more years if I took these drugs every day, I could live without the more severe symptoms. What a lucky fellow I was! The doctor said five years, maybe six, and I supposed that could mean anything from three to nine.

Martín was in a worse state of shock than I was. It was like I pushed any poor reactions from myself and into him- shuttled the shock and fear and horror down the line of our connection, and had him feel them for me. He trembled terribly the whole day, and I liked that. I watched the raindrops slide down the windowpane- even the weather suited this news. There was a dark spot growing on my canvas, and it would never go away.

When I told Tatiana, she was shocked as well, as was natural for so good a woman as her. I calmed her easily. The truth was, it had taken me very little time to come to terms with the...situation. On that first rainy night, when Martín had been pacing back and forth in the corridor outside my room, I had figured it all out.

It really wasn’t so bad, the fact that I was going to die. After all, _everyone_ was going to die. Death was the one great constant (I never paid any taxes). The one great equalizer. Of course I would fall! And perhaps someone like me- who had lived a life of extravagance and beauty- was bound to die earlier, rather than later.

And it was very freeing, in a sense, this cutting off of the calendar, this knowledge that I was to die. Ordinary people may know that their deaths were an eventuality, but they all planned to live into old age, scrambling to arrange things for the time when their minds and bodies would give way, hoarding their little paychecks and their heirlooms and recording their existences on boring pieces of paper. Pathetic. So many people lived to cling to life, stretching their pleasures out so thin over their too-many years that such pleasures were barely pleasures at all. What good was that, saving time to spend it in a care facility somewhere, shitting yourself and drooling in the hands of the nurses? I wanted none of that. I would never have that.

(I would find a way to die before the disease made me like my mother had been in her last months. I was absolutely certain of that.)

So, what a wonderful thing it really was, to be dying! I would never become old and ugly, and had no reason to waste my time trying to survive when I could be living- _really living-_ instead. And it was romantic to die young, wasn’t it? Like Hamlet. That story had been a romance, in a way.

I told Martín of these thoughts, and had him laugh with me, and we danced and gave toast to this revelation. This _apocalypse_ , in every sense of the word. My last years, these five to eight to ten years, would be a work of art unlike any of my others. My masterpiece began.

I proposed to Tatiana, and it was the most beautiful of all my proposals. She accepted, of course. There was nothing else that she could do. I would show her the romance of a dying man, and overwhelm her with it.

Then, we set to planning in earnest, Martín and I. I wanted to do the golden plan, I wanted to take the Bank of Spain. I wanted to do that which was impossible, and go down in history. I fell so totally in love with the idea, the plan was like another wife. I dreamed of it, and oh, what a web we crafted- it was such an elegant plan, with pieces that came together and fell into place so easily. I spent my days toying with the miniatures, eating delicious food and drinking good wine, making love to Tatiana, planning our wedding and painting. I took my drugs like a good boy, and was barely bothered by the disease coming to life under my skin- certainly, I had no more episodes like the one in the bathtub, and I found I feared nothing. Martín was there the whole time, my constant.

But, there were some challenges- some parts of the plan which neither of us could quite make fit. And besides, I figured, it was always good to have a third-party editor for one’s work. Someone who could see the art from a distance, with a fresh eye.

So I called my little brother to Italy, and of course he came. He was working on his own plan at this point- a plan to enter the Mint, and not steal a single piece of paper. He told me of this, and I quite liked the idea- I thought it suited him. Intelligent and precise, just like Sergio was. 

(I told him he could have been a _professor_ in another life.)

I also told him the ‘bad news’, and he reacted as I had expected. It didn’t matter. He acclimatized to the idea quickly enough.

I introduced him to Tatiana, and I figured he would like her, once he got over the shock to his propriety that was my romance. He already knew Martín. We worked on the plan, us three- Sergio, Martín, and I. I, the dying man, and my brother of the flesh, and my brother of the soul. Sergio was very helpful, sometimes, when his skepticism and insistent ‘realism’ wasn’t overwhelming him with unimportant, gritty details or ugly impossibilities. The plan became real beneath our hands, as solid as any Renaissance statue.

Tatiana and I had our wedding. Only old friends were invited. Sergio caught the bouquet- wasn’t that lovely! Maybe someday he would know what _real_ love was.

(The others, I thought, probably never would- one abandoned all his women with babies in their bellies, one felt nothing for people and everything for animals, and the last was a queer.)

The days that passed were pleasures.

But by now, maybe, I should have learned- whenever things became too perfect, something had to go wrong.

My baby brother had very serious doubts about our plan. At first I brushed him off, scolded him for not seeing the art- but gradually, his remarks worked their way under my skull, and made themselves a home in my thoughts. And they could only make it so far because underneath my love and devotion for the plan, some part of me already believed him.

But worse-

Sergio had very serious doubts about _Martín._

_“You’re in love with the plan...and he’s in love with you.”_

...and some part of me believed that, too.

Of course, I denied it at first- to Sergio and to myself. But it was inescapable, these facts, this reality.

A wave the size of a tower rose in my mind, a great, slow-moving, gargantuan wave, and it swept over me.

I realized I had known this all along.

Oh, how Martín looked at me- there was always such devotion in his bright green eyes. Such tenderness when he helped dress me, such affection when I smiled at him, such delight when I praised anything he did. There was always a hint of hope, blistering white on the canvas, when he propositioned me- blowing kisses or offering blowjobs. How distant he always was from my wives. What a terrible state he had been in, fearing my death! It was true, wasn’t it? It had to be true, and I, and I…

I had fooled myself for years, thinking that Martín simply loved me, when he was _in_ love with me instead.

The wave spun me about for a while, flooding my mind, digging into its every crevice to find all my old works and recolouring them. I saw all my carefully painted memories with a new clarity, and I found myself thinking...maybe, just maybe...that this wasn’t a terrible thing. 

Oh, Sergio said it was dangerous, but he was a nervous night-owl, clicking his beak at anything he didn’t understand. And sure, it could be dangerous- but it could also be the most beautiful thing I had ever done.

If, that was, I could change the colour of my own feelings. If I could change 99% to 100%.

But why not? The human psyche was such a complicated thing. People’s minds changed all the time, through torture or heartbreak or even merely the slow decay of time. Why couldn’t I change mine for love?

The thing was, I _wanted_ this. Thinking of it was simply astounding!

We would be so _perfect_ together! We already loved each other completely. It would be the culmination of all our time together, a climax to defy the heavens, something of exactly the force and passion that I dreamed of for my last years. We could stand side by side on the edge of the world, mirror images with shared souls and shared flesh, and nothing would be able to touch us. We would be gods, burning as hot as the sun and utterly unstoppable.

I could divorce Tatiana in an instant. She was lovely but, just as with all women, I controlled every aspect of our relationship to have it suit my desires- but I didn’t need to do that with Martín. He already suited me perfectly, and I never needed to push him, never needed to remake him in any way. From the moment I had met him, he had been like this, almost like some greater force had designed him just for me. I didn’t doubt that he would be equally as overjoyed as I by this future I envisioned- indeed, he would probably be moreso, having been waiting for me for so long. Oh, that thought made me absolutely _shiver_ with delight- yes, he had been _waiting_ for me! He was _in love_ with me and he _wanted_ me and he was my _soulmate,_ and with a snap of my fingers he would give me everything he had without question.

I decided I wanted him to. I wanted this beautiful future.

There was only one thing standing in the way- one little ‘mitochondrion’. After all, it wouldn’t work if I didn’t have him 100%. Frankly, the whole thing was rather ugly with anything less- yes, it was ruined unless it was perfect, but if it was perfect it would be beyond wonderful. Surely, that little mitochondrion was nothing. I was a man of impeccable self-control. 

I set a dinner date with Tatiana. If I was successful, I would break up with her. Whether she was understanding or not, that wouldn’t matter. If I was unsuccessful...well. It would be like any other night for her.

I went to Martín that evening with purpose. I made sure I looked especially handsome, because this moment was important. Martín himself looked...well, handsome? Pretty? Something like that, surely. I teased him, and told him nothing but the truth, and he did exactly what I wanted him to because _of course he would!_ He was _made_ for me! He could surely feel what I felt, what was hovering in the air. How sweet his expression became, how softly all his walls came down. How gently he approached me, the green of his eyes wet with unshed tears. I smiled, because I knew I already had every part of him. I held the fabric of his entire being in my hands.

_“Where is your desire?”_

He kissed me with utter desperation, and an incredible love. Why, foolishly I had assumed him incapable of a love like this, but I felt it burning against me, brighter than any star. I committed myself completely to my test- made sure I was hyper-aware of how his body moved against mine, how his arms wrapped around my neck, the touch of his lips and the taste of his tongue. I wanted to find my own feelings, track them down like they were a wild beast in the jungle, and see the colour of their stripes and the length of their teeth.

And what I felt was…

...nothing.

The kiss fell apart, and how sadly he whimpered, clinging to me like a needy dog- a little unbecoming, for such a clever creature. But that wasn’t his fault.

_“Where? Where?”_

I reasoned with myself. No, this wasn’t how I would do it- he wouldn’t kiss _me,_ I would kiss _him._ He would _belong_ to me. Yes, that suited my tastes much better- surely, I would find it arousing to _claim_ him, _dominate_ him, love him with the brutality that suited a love between men, and he would like that too- after all, he was the real _maricón,_ between the two of us. 

I backed him into the wall, and took him like that, drinking in all his weak little moans, clutching his trembling body to me. I kissed him like I could devour him, swallow him whole.

I wanted to enjoy it. I wanted it _so badly!_ I wanted to feel myself become hot and hard, wanted to want to drag him to bed and make him scream my name, wanted to want to pin his wrists above his head and fill him with me. I wanted to be delighted and aroused and filled with the passion that I knew I was capable of. I wanted to want to join us together like this, in the final bond that would make us truly inseparable, one body and one soul. God damnit, we would be _everything!_

I felt nothing. Nothing but mild discomfort, a light distaste. His body wasn’t right- not soft where I wanted it to be, too angular. Too _masculine._ His skin was too rough, the push of his jaw and tongue too forceful, the smell of his skin not sweet enough. No part of me rose in passion, my soul did not jump with completion and understanding, I heard no music in my mind- only the sound of Martín’s rapidly beating heart, that fluttered against me like a small bird trapped in a cage.

So, it wasn’t going to work.

It wasn’t going to work.

I think Martín came to this understanding at the same time I did, for I saw the lights in his eyes go out.

What a pity.

I turned away from him, and let myself grieve the abortion of that beautiful future for just a moment.

I knew now that Sergio was completely right. It couldn’t be the way I wanted it to be, it could only be dangerous. The plan was flawed, almost too flawed to even consider, and Martín and I were not...could not…

It would be best if I set him free. Foxes weren’t meant to be kept in cages. He was a wild thing, as wild as he was elegant, and if we couldn’t be together he at least deserved to be released. I would cut him from my orbit and set him loose to launch through space, where he could pick up satellites of his own, burn his image into the retinas of lesser men. It was for his own good that I would do this- I respected him, and felt for him a very deep affection, in a way I knew I had never felt for anyone else, and perhaps never would again. And because of this, I knew that it was here that our story ended. Here was where we must separate.

I left him behind.

…

I stood in the fading sun outside the monastery, and thought of him.

I compiled all my thoughts and memories, this beautiful work that had taken years to paint, and I found a place for it in my mind- not the same place where I dumped all the pieces of my ex-wives, no, he deserved something nicer than that. I gave him a room all his own, one in a comfortable and precious place with pleasant lighting, a room that looked much like the interior of the monastery- and I closed the door.

That night, I would go to dinner with Tatiana.

I would go with Sergio, and deceive the entire world, and steal nothing but time from the Mint.

I took a deep breath of fresh air, and felt refreshed. New beginnings were always so enjoyable- pure white and untouched and ready for me to begin my work. I was content.

I did not think of him again.

_One day you buy,_

_One day you love._

_One day you throw it away,_

_But one day you pay._

_One day you’ll see-_

_We’ll love one another!_

_But before that, we’ll all die,_

_just_

_like_

_rats._

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics are from ‘Carmen’, by Stromae. Thanks for reading!


End file.
